A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away
by Two Brit Twits
Summary: 15ft Riff. One-eyed Magenta. Frank and his casting couch. You know you want to.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: We do not own any of the characters.

This is set on Transsexual and details how the characters met and why they left for Earth.

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Chapter 1

Clouds curdled overhead as Riff Raff glared out of the window. The weather didn't even have the decency to rain, he thought gloomily, being merely overcast and unpleasantly muggy. He glanced down at the papers sprawled across the bed in lieu of a desk and contemplated attempting the cipher puzzles yet again.

So engrossed was he in the day's word game that he completely failed to notice the return of his elder sister; an event which normally would have sent him scurrying back to whatever task he was meant to be completing in her absence. In this case, it was looking over the job listings he'd decorated with several different and mutually contradictory rating schemes in order to find a job that would pay the rent without leading him to gnaw his own foot off out of bored frustration.

Magenta observed her brother from the bedroom doorway. A quick glance at the paper in his hands confirmed her suspicions. She rolled her eye "Look harder. I have done more to keep us since the war and **you** do not have any…" she tapped her glass eye with a nail "…disability."

It was one of her brother's many idiosyncrasies: he'd long since lost his distaste for blood and other bodily fluids (he'd become inured somewhere in the second week of sewing up shrapnel wounds), but something about eyes just made him shudder. It was a quirk that his sister exploited shamelessly and she was pleased to note that his reply had that wretched hitch heard whenever someone is struggling not to be sick.

"I have… made a list of those which might be… suitable." He paused, noticed the second hand chiffon hung over her arm and smirked, "I am afraid none are sufficiently… lucrative… to indulge your extravagant… tastes."

Magenta merely raised an eyebrow at the jibe. She'd spent most of the war enlisted as an army mechanic and the continuation of clothes rationing post-armistice hadn't permitted the expansion of her wardrobe beyond frayed fatigues, hence she considered the sight of her in a dress to be well worth the cost of chiffon.

"You received such favourable reports as a fresher," she commented as she drifted over to the bed and began sorting through the clippings, "I'm sure **someone** would take you as a dlenger."

"Gensie..." he replied in a withering tone, "the majority would not... allow me to continue with my degree. I would not be able to attend any of the… lectures."

"Riffins." She stretched out on the bed languorously, mirroring his pose. "I think you will find that **this**," here, she uncrossed an arm to wave her pension book, "will not allow you to continue your degree." She folded her arms and waited, certain the fact that her pension could barely cover their rent, let alone heating, clothing and student fees would begin to break down her brother's childish arrogance towards menial work.

He frowned, a dlenger? Not a unusual choice for semi-skilled workers, but he'd never considered it. It sounded exceedingly boring, not to mention demeaning. On the other hand, past experience showed that curses, bribes, threats, shameless begging and even reasonable discourse were useless when trying to dissuade his sister from anything once she'd set her sights on it, including the use of that name. His current strategy was to suppress any reaction in the hope that she would get bored. Unfortunately she tended to put her training to good use- he always cracked first. He kicked the bed, and replied grudgingly, "Night shift specific: page 4. Unspecified hours: page 7."

"That's better," she cooed, leaning back on the bed and propping her arms behind her head. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a clipping marked by a cross little scribble which she took to mean her brother found it distasteful, and the words "applicants must be flexible." Ah, that was why. She picked it up idly, to examine it further, should she need any ammunition for teasing Riff that night.

They bickered over the various jobs for an hour or so. Most of the night shift ones were security based. Riff's helpful suggestion that his sister's face would be a valuable asset in scaring away potential looters was not well received, nor was her retort that his aptitude for doing nothing but blither clearly marked him out for the civil service, especially as he'd secretly considered applying there as a junior clerk if surgical college became unviable.

Eventually they settled on a list of applications that Riff Raff might be deemed qualified for and able to do for 6 months without murdering anybody. In a way, it was fortunate that it barely reached double figures as it made it so much easier for Magenta to poke her brother into submission when it came to writing the letters. Once this was accomplished she let him be, pretending to busy herself with the contents of a newspaper; though should she hear a lull of more than a minute in the scritching of his pen she would be struck by the sudden urge to pop, wipe and re-insert her glass eye. A period of writing which she deemed productive past, and her sense of curiosity began to stir. She yawned, pushing the paper aside, and went to lean over Riff's shoulder, letting her hair tickle the back of his neck. "Very good," she smirked, observing the small stack of letters, and giving his own hair a patronising ruffle. "Now get to work in the kitchen. Otherwise you won't eat tonight."

He contemplated telling her to make her own bloody dinner, but to be honest, dissecting the chicken legs would be far more interesting than writing yet another pointless letter. It wasn't that the country didn't need workers, the war had decimated his generation after all, it just couldn't afford to pay them. He tossed the pile of ads towards her, asking snidely whether she'd like to write some letters of her own.

Magenta scowled. Of course, she would have looked for work of her own accord, but now that Riff had thrown her the ads it would seem like he'd won a battle in their interminable sibling war, something she always liked to avoid. As soon as he'd clomped off downstairs to the kitchen, she tossed aside the ads in favour of rifling through his letters, noting with equal parts irritation and a certain sense of smug, elder-sisterly satisfaction in that she would have to dot a few 'i's and cross his 't's properly before the letters could be deemed sendable.

Once they'd been surreptitiously corrected, Magenta quickly penned one of her own whilst he was out of sight. The wage was minimal, but repairing monitors and other household equipment was well within her means, and although **some** progress had been made in getting Riff to try and get work, she was doubtful as to his chances in succeeding with any of the jobs he'd chosen. That ad for a "flexible" dlenger seemed a more likely possibility, however much it made her brother's lip curl. Of course, she thought with a trace of a smirk, his distaste for such work would make the job not only practical, but highly amusing, for her at least. Taking advantage of the few minutes she had until Riff returned with his dubious culinary delights, she retrieved the slightly crumpled ad, and composed a reply for her brother. He wouldn't thank her for it, but so much the better, as far as she was concerned.

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We strive to make our stories as believable and readable as possible, however if you see anything you disagree with (or would like to see more of) then please let us know, either by PM or review.

Chapter 2 will be uploaded in a week or so.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: We apologise for the long wait between updates.

Summary: sibling fluff

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Magenta awoke to the thud of letters landing on the door mat. She checked the clock and groaned. Never one to waste time, she rolled out of bed and made her way down their creaky death-trap of a staircase to the front door. If the letters happened to be anything more relevant than desperate efforts to hawk life insurance or (even more pathetic) schemes involving money to non-existent Transylvanian princes, she would be the first to know. She'd already heard back about a position in a repair shop a few days ago, so there was a possibility that amongst these missives there might be something pertinent to Riff's current lack of employment.

She was not disappointed. A heavy envelope, emblazoned with a rather vulgar crest and hailing from the district of Furter looked promising. Chucking the other bumf back on the mat, she trekked back up to the bedroom, barely suppressing a smirk as she waved it under her brother's nose. "This came."

The aforementioned nose was swiftly hidden under a blanket along with the rest of its owner. It had been a fairly hectic week; a number of experiments had escaped and required police assistance to track down. Riff had been looking forward to a lie in. Alas, it was not to be. After much prodding the blanket was cruelly whipped away exposing him to the lukewarm air of the room. "Go away!" He stuffed his head back under a pillow and curled up in the corner furthest away from her- it was barely noon after all, far too early.

Magenta cackled at her brother's petulance, and tore open the ridiculously overblown red seal herself. "With reference to your application for the post of laboratory assistant..."

He half listened to the muffled babbling for a few minutes, then mentally rewound it.

"Wait... what?" he sat up, "I didn't apply to be a lab rat. Are you sure this... letter is for me?"

Magenta skimmed the rest of the letter before folding it up and tossing it at her brother. "No, **you** didn't." She punctuated this with a sharp poke at his ribs. "But elder sisters always know best, as I'm sure you're aware by now."

Riff snorted. "Khun'ri." he replied flatly, then flinched to avoid another attack. He shoved the letter in the pile of notes he never quite got round to organising, scooped the blanket off the floor and hopped back on to the mattress.

"Either get back in... or make breakfast."

Magenta retrieved the letter from the pile of no return, and languidly returned to bed. She yawned and rubbed her eye, followed by another thorough wiping of the glass eye on her robe. Putting it back with a particularly audible pop, she resumed her reading. "You are requested to appear for an interview for the said post on the twentieth day of Gossary," (and he **would** go, even if she had to spike his breakfast with some rudimentary homemade narcotics to get him in a hackney shuttle). "There was nothing else for you, you know," she added pointedly.

He sighed, disgustingly awake but unwilling to leave the relative comfort of the bed. It didn't surprise him that none of the others had replied yet, post was very slow due to labour shortages. Letters could take over a week to arrive, unless you could afford a courier, and who (apart from this bastard, Furter) could afford that? Whoever he was, Riff would bet that he could also afford to decently equip a laboratory, maybe even well enough that he wouldn't notice certain... supplies... dwindling faster than perhaps they ought. He smirked, incubation vats were standard tech, but not cheap. If Furter had one, Riff might finally be able to replace his sister's damnable glass eye.

He smirked.

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We strive to make our stories as believable and readable as possible, however if you see anything you disagree with (or would like to see more of) then please let us know, either by PM or review.


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